Set in Stone
by A Deed Without a Name
Summary: As a joke, Dean has Castiel tell him who his soulmate is - whose name is written on his heart. He's honestly a little curious, too. But the answer isn't one that he expects, or likes. WARNING: Contains Wincest and soulmates.


**Been awhile since I wrote a Wincest oneshot (or anything), so here's this. Also known as The Fic That Would Not End Oh My God. It just kept going and going and going...it didn't want to come to a satisfying conclusion. Hope it's not as stupid and rambling as it felt like it was when I was writing it.**

 **One more oneshot to follow, but that one involves my gross fetish, so some of you may not be interested.**

 **Anyway. Enjoy some hot brother-on-brother action (you perverts) and lots of headcanon! Plus, this is my first time writing Dean affected by the Mark but not completely taken over by it, so hopefully, I hit a good balance there.**

* * *

The TV was busted, Sam was out on a supply run, and Dean would sell Baby for beer money before he'd read a book for anything besides research, so he decided to go bug Castiel.

Their wingless angel was spending a short stint in the bunker so he could look through the library - which, Dean had to admit, was pretty impressive. For a library. He was working his own case and needed information, but irritably waved the Winchesters away like they were helicopter parents when they tried to help him. So Dean found him crammed into what looked like the most secluded corner of the place he'd been able to find, pouring over a handwritten book on (Dean leaned over him, squinting at the upside-down text) selkies.

"Hey, there, Cas," he greeted. Since Castiel obviously wasn't going to say anything himself. There was no way he hadn't known he was there, with his angelic senses; he must've just been ignoring him.

Castiel sighed through his nose, closing the book and setting it aside before he looked up at Dean. He shook his head a little.

"What do you want, Dean?" he asked.

"Jeez. Think you could be a little more polite?" Dean asked, immediately deciding that he just didn't give a damn about the impatient note in Castiel's voice. "What'd I do?"

"What do you want?" Castiel repeated.

"Well..." Dean reached over and pulled a chair that was a mirror image of the one that Castiel was sitting on away from a nearby table. He straddled it backwards, giving the angel his friendliest smile. "I thought that, maybe, you could use a ha - "

"I'm doing just fine on my own, thanks," Castiel interrupted. Just a bit too loudly, in Dean's opinion. "I thought that I'd made that clear before now." He reached for his book again, a snub if Dean had ever seen one.

"Hey, wait." Dean held out a hand.

"I know that your television set is broken," Castiel replied bluntly, opening the book on his lap. "Actually, one of the tubes is cracked; you'll have to buy a new one. And I won't be your entertainment until that happens. Sorry." He licked one thumb and turned the page, eyes fixed on the author's neat scribblings. Dean had been vaguely unnerved by Castiel's ability to read and talk at the same time since he'd first demonstrated it, and this time was no exception: he made a face. "I'm grateful for your offer to help, but your brother will be home soon, and then you can bother him... _he_ won't be busy."

Dean snorted. "Oh, get off your high horse. Not like you've never popped in outta the blue and pestered me and Sam while we were trying to work." This wasn't really going how he'd hope it would. Maybe he just should've stayed in his room and cleaned the weapons he had hanging on his wall for the millionth time.

Castiel sighed exasperatedly, tearing his eyes away from the book in order to stare at Dean. Dean stared back, folding his arms defiantly on top of the back of his chair.

"I guess I finally get how irritating that was," he said. "Dean, I'm sure you understand how important it is to me that I finish this hunt."

"That is just so adorable I wanna make a scrapbook," Dean said seriously. "But I'm actually trying to help you here. Remember?"

"Of course you are," Castiel replied in a tone that he just had to have picked up from Sam. He was back to reading that damn book again.

Dean waited almost a full minute, staring at Castiel and waiting for some sort of indication that he knew he was still here, but he didn't get one. So he sighed as loudly as he could, rocked his chair forward onto two of its legs, then let it _snap_ back down. Growing up with an overly-clingy little brother had left him with so many ways to be annoying that, more often than not, he had a tough time choosing between them.

Much to his satisfaction, he heard Castiel begin to grind his teeth - though he didn't look up from the book again.

"My wings may be gone, but I _do_ have grace - for the moment," he said, speaking very deliberately. Like Dean was a little kid who'd been held back a few grades for obvious reasons. "Don't make me seal your mouth shut for the rest of the day."

"Like you'd do that," Dean replied. He didn't even think that he could do it. He'd seen another angel - Zachariah - take Sam's lungs and put end-stage cancer in his stomach, things that would make sealing up Dean's mouth for a few hours look like a party trick. But Castiel wasn't Zachariah Especially not with the stolen grace that he was using now. "It's nereids you're after, by the way. Not selkies. Totally different mythology."

Castiel snapped the book closed, stared at the masking-tape label on the cover, then shoved it disgustedly onto the nearest shelf with a weary sigh. Dean could understand his frustration, since he'd pretty much wasted the last few days. He'd been there a handful of times himself.

"See? I'm helping!" Dean threw his hands up in the air. "Speaking of which, you better put that thing back where you found it. Sam'll go into conniptions if you screw up his precious library." He grimaced a little. "Trust me on this."

Castiel left his chair without a word, heading to the other side of the library. Probably to look for books on nereids. Dean got up to follow him, but stopped in his tracks when Castiel spun around to face him.

 ** _"Go,"_** he commanded, in the voice that made it damn clear that he was - or had been, at least - an angel of the Lord. He didn't use it very often, but whenever he did, it never failed to send chills down Dean's spine. Maybe Castiel was letting some of his real voice leak out into that of his vessel.

"Hey, wait," Dean said again as Castiel lifted an arm and pointed firmly in the direction of his room. Something in him wanted to just duck his head and meekly scurry off, but the rest of him had never been real big on following orders (that didn't come from his father).

"No." Castiel spun back around on his heel in a way that was far too sassy for him to have gotten it from anywhere other than an outdated TV show. "Leave me alone, Dean."

"But I've got a real question now!" Desperate to keep himself from having to march, defeated, back to his empty, quiet room, Dean wracked his rain for something to ask. Almost immediately, an idea popped to the front of it - much to his pleasant surprise. "D'you remember that case we worked, oh, jeez, a hell of a long time ago, back when the first end of the world was still going down? The one with Famine?"

Castiel stopped, and turned to look back at Dean. Dean watched one of his hands almost unconsciously drift to his stomach. "Yes."

"Right. Well, the couple that ate each other out just a little too much, the ones that brought us to the area originally. While we were looking at their bodies, you said something about the name of a person's soulmate being written on their heart." Dean was gesturing as he talked, really excited now.

Castiel cocked his head to the side, birdlike. "Yes, I remember. What about it?"

"I wanna know," Dean reached up and thumped the left side of his chest, "who's on my heart."

Castiel blinked at him, almost owlishly, before turning away again. "Oh."

"Just outta curiosity," Dean explained. "You can tell what it is, can't you? The name, I mean."

"Yes. I read it when I carved the cloaking sigils into your ribs," Castiel responded. He started walking again, and Dean hurried after him. "But I don't think you want to know."

"Well, why the hell not?" Dean demanded.

"I'm pretty sure it would only upset you," Castiel said. He cast a wry glance back at Dean over his shoulder. "And then you'd take it out on me."

"I would not," Dean protested, offended.

"I've known you for the better part of a decade, Dean," Castiel replied, sounding completely unfazed. He was scanning the bookshelves now. "Your temper is as short as it is predictable... _this_ should not be here."

He pulled a magazine off a middle shelf with his thumb and forefinger, passing it back to Dean with obvious disapproval. Dean looked down at the black-and-white picture on the cover. A woman with Marilyn Monroe's build and platinum curls posed suggestively on a sofa in a corset and stockings. Dean didn't really get why Castiel was so scandalized. It wasn't like there was anything showing below her bare shoulders.

"You know that this isn't mine, right?" he asked, lifting the magazine and shaking it so that it rustled. "It's probably been here for about eighty years."

"I'm sure." Castiel continued his search, presumably for a book on nereids. Dean gave up on arguing his innocence, tossing ye olde porn onto the nearest table.

"Like you're so pure," Dean told Castiel. "You did a reaper bare without so much as buying her dinner first."

Castiel paused, glancing over his shoulder and blinking in utter bewilderment. "I...what?"

"Never mind." Dean trailed after Castiel, staying close enough to talk. He wasn't wearing his trademark coat today. Dean'd noticed that he usually didn't wear it while he was staying in the bunker - maybe he took it off whenever he felt safe. "Why d'you think I'd get mad if you told me who my soulmate is?"

"I don't _think_ , I _know_ ," Castiel replied. "It wouldn't be a pleasant prospect for you. This kind of thing has tapered off since Biblical times. I was honestly pretty surprised when I read the name."

Dean frowned. Just what the hell was that supposed to mean?

"Is she ugly or something?" he asked, shaking his head. "Or, like..." Biblical times. "...really, really young?"

"No," Castiel admitted, after a few seconds of hesitation. Dean noticed he wasn't looking at him, focusing fully on the books so that he couldn't even see his eyes.

"So you know who she is," Dean guessed, the excitement coming back. Even though Castiel was acting like Dean was trying to get him to pry his own fingernails off instead of to get information out of him, he was pretty happy. How many people got to find out for sure who they were supposed to spend the rest of their life with?

Castiel sighed heavily, resting his forehead against the edge of a shelf for a moment.

"Yes. I do."

"So, just - just give me a first name," Dean suggested, spreading his arms. "C'mon. How much damage can a first name do?"

"A lot," Castiel said grimly, glancing sideways at Dean out of the corner of his blue eyes.

"Well, I don't get - " Dean stopped as a possibility occurred to him. Grief, years old and almost forgotten, welled up like bile in his throat. He managed to choke out, quietly, "It's not...it wasn't Lisa, was it?"

"It wasn't Lisa, no," Castiel said clearly. Dean relaxed, just a little bit.

"Oh. Well, okay." Dammit. Why had he had to remember that? The memory, the pain of it, sat like a lead weight in his stomach. It was one of many things that he'd tried to bury over the years, alone with his father's death and the night that Sam had told him he was going to Stanford. It'd be nipping at him all day and probably into the night, too, eating up hours of sleep that he couldn't afford to lose. And he just had to blame Castiel for dredging it up. So when the angel began to pull a book off the shelf, Dean shoved it back in and held it there. "Tell me the first name, then."

Castiel glanced at him, face almost a mask of frustration. "Dean - "

"First name," Dean repeated. Castiel blew out an exasperated breath. For some reason that Dean was pretty sure he'd never understand, it smelled like ice and clover. And maybe apples, too.

"Sam," he said through gritted teeth. "The first name is Sam. Are you happy?"

Dean blinked, surprised, then huffed out a little chuckle. "Well, that's kinda weird. So..." He shook his head, taking his hand off of the book. "Short for Samantha?"

"No," Castiel said shortly, pulling the book out. He examined the cover, sucked his teeth, and shoved it back onto the shelf like it had insulted him.

Dean thought. "Samara?" he guessed. There really weren't that many Sam names for girls. Or guys, either, he supposed. "Sam...onella?"

"It's not a woman, Dean," Castiel said almost angrily, pulling out another book. "Your soulmate is another man. 'Sam' is short for 'Samuel.'"

Dean jerked back like he'd been slapped, stomach falling right out of him.

"That's impossible," he protested as adrenaline dumped itself into his bloodstream, despite the lack of anything to fight. "I'm not gay."

"Of course not," Castiel agreed. This book went back onto the shelf, too. "You're very clearly...bisexual." He stared down at a third book, gripped determinedly in his hands. "I think that's the term."

"Well, I'm not _that_ , either," Dean said angrily, shaking his head.

Castiel shot him a witheringly unimpressed look. "Do I have to remind you about the lifeguard at the community pool in Houston when you were fifteen?" he asked him. "Or the schoolteacher with the hobgoblin infestation in Carson City three years ago? Or the time when you'd had so much to drink that you thought it would be appropriate to fondle my - "

"Okay, okay, Jesus fuckin' Christ, shut _up_!" Dean stopped just short of clapping a hand over Castiel's big mouth. He glanced frantically around the library, but, of course, the two of them were alone. Nobody else had heard the angel loudly spill the beans that he'd even kept from Sam for most of his life. "All right. So _maybe_ I feel like swinging the other way once in a while, but I _definitely_ prefer girls." He rubbed both hands over his face. "Well, fuck me. I can't believe my soulmate's a guy." Too late, he realized how ironic the first statement was, given the situation, and cringed behind his hands.

"You should go think about it alone," Castiel suggested, sinking into the nearest chair as he cracked open the book that was still in his hands. That one must actually be about nereids.

"Man, this is weird," Dean said, willfully ignoring the hint as he slowly shook his head. "I mean, the guy I'm supposed to shack up with for eternity has the same damn name as my brother."

Castiel sighed heavily, resting an elbow on the table that his chair belonged to and, in turn, resting his stubbled chin in his hand. He regarded Dean with profoundly disinterested eyes.

"You're not going to leave, are you?" he asked.

"I'm kinda trying to adjust my whole outlook on life, Cas," Dean replied. "Might take awhile."

"I told you it would only upset you," Castiel responded matter-of-factly. "At any rate, I guess there really isn't anything to lose by telling you that your soulmate doesn't have the same name as your brother.

"And how is that?" Dean asked. "'Sam' is short for 'Samuel.' He was named after our grandpa...who, come to find out, was kind of a douche, but whatever."

"The full name on your heart," Castiel said, "is Samuel Marion Winchester."

Dean stared, jaw working.

"Goddammit," he muttered, mostly to himself. "So he's got _exactly_ the same damn name as my brother."

 _"No,"_ Castiel told him firmly, abandoning his book in order to get to his feet. "You're in denial, Dean. Which I guess I can't say is too terribly uncharacteristic of you." He closed the distance between them with a pair of purposeful strides, lifting a hand and pressing it decisively to the left side of Dean's chest before he could stop him. He closed his eyes and began to speak, sounding like he was reading something off a page. "'Samuel Marion Winchester, second-born son to John Winchester and Mary Campbell Winchester, younger brother to Dean John Winchester, adopted son to Robert Singer, hunter, Legacy, true vessel of Lucifer the Fallen - "

Dean shoved Castiel. Not very hard, but for all the good it did, he probably could've used every ounce of strength in his body and still not moved the angel an inch. At least he'd shut him up, and made him take his hand off of him.

"Cut it out," Dean growled at Castiel, realizing, as he spoke, that his voice had dropped about an octave because of how pissed he was. "Just - _stop_ it, okay? It's not fucking funny anymore. It wasn't even funny to begin with."

Castiel regarded him neutrally. "You think I'm joking."

"Well - you've gotta be. There's no way in hell I'm _destined_ to bang my little brother." Dean threw up his hands, done. And embarrassed, too, because, yeah, he realized that he'd brought this upon himself by bothering Castiel half to death while he was trying to work. "I'm leaving now. Sorry for bugging you, okay? I don't even care about my soulmate anymore. I'd probably never meet her, anyway."

"Dean," Castiel began, as Dean turned and started to walk away. "Sam _is_ your soulmate."

"Sure he is, Cas." The loneliness of his room was better than this.

"Just think about it," Castiel pushed. Dean heard footsteps, and realized that he was following him - their positions from earlier were totally reversed now. "You two were going to be the true vessels for Michael and Lucifer, who had been mated almost since the beginning of time."

"The hell they had," Dean replied without looking back. "Those dickwads hated each other's guts."

Castiel made a noise halfway between agreement and disagreement. "How many times have you and Sam been mistaken for a couple?"

"People jump to conclusions about two guys who happen to live together. Nothing else to it."

"There's an _undeniable_ chemistry between the two of you," Castiel countered. "Everyone sees it. Even _I_ can see it, and you know how bad I am with things like that. I still can't pick up on it when someone flirts with me." He paused. "I can tell that you and Sam flirt with each other all the time, though."

"Cas - " Dean whirled around. They were out of the library now, in the hall that led to his and Sam's rooms. "What part of 'stop it' don't you understand? That's just _disgusting_. We're brothers, and yeah, I'll be the first to admit that we're probably a hell of a lot closer than we really should be, but we don't _flirt_. We're not _soulmates_. What you're talking about here is incest - d'you realize that?"

"Of course I do," Castiel replied. "Don't you remember me saying that this sort of thing's tapered off since Biblical times?"

Dean stared, then just shook his head yet again, beyond grossed out at this point. Castiel had forcibly put a picture of a naked Sam in his head. All tan and lean and surrounded by tousled bedcovers and - god, he'd better stop before he threw up.

"You're the one who wanted to know, Dean," Castiel pointed out calmly.

"Shove it up your ass," Dean said angrily, turning back towards his room. "I'm about five minutes from kicking you outta the bunker again - this whole thing's a load of bullshit. Maybe _I_ get a craving for other dudes once in a blue moon, but Sam sure as hell doesn't."

"Have you ever asked him about it?" Castiel asked, stopping Dean in his tracks. He threw a glance over his shoulder.

"No," he said. "Of course not. I haven't had to...what the hell d'you mean by that, anyway?"

"I think it's time for you to discuss this with your brother," Castiel replied. "In fact, he just got home."

Dean opened his mouth to respond, but sure enough, the loud, metallic slamming of the bunker's heavy front door interrupted him before he could get a single word out. At the same time, Castiel turned around and headed back towards the library.

"I've got to make up for a lot of lost time," he said without looking at Dean. "Pass the message on to Sam: _please_ don't bother me again unless it's an actual emergency. Okay?"

The muscles in Dean's jaw twitched, but Castiel disappeared around a corner before he could think of a comeback. Jesus. Just when had he turned into the standard angelic dick-with-wings? Or without wings, in this case.

It looked like he had two options now. Go back to his room and try to erase this disaster with music that, admittedly, was turned up way too loud, and the beer that he planned on sneaking from the kitchen later, or go and talk to Sam. Dean definitely knew which one he'd prefer, but before he knew it, his feet were carrying him towards the front of the bunker. He set his teeth and growled in the back of his throat.

He found Sam, face tense with concentration and effort, on his way down the staircase that their front door opened on. He had about ten bulging grocery bags loading down each arm, their plastic handles digging grooves into the skin that his T-shirt left bare. He lit up like a fluorescent bulb when he saw Dean, who had to bite back a groan.

"Oh, hey, I was just about to yell at you," he greeted. "There's about two dozen bags still out in the car, if you wanna help. We were literally out of everything."

"Yeah. Great," Dean said, unable to muster up much enthusiasm as Sam nudged past him on his way to the kitchen. Not that he found groceries all that exciting under normal circumstances, but still. "I'll do that."

Sam stopped, grunting as a few of the bags bumped against him, and glanced quizzically over his shoulder. Dean inadvertently imagined him making that noise in the bedroom, and dug the fingernails of one hand into his palm. He didn't want to have sex with Sam.

"What's wrong with you?" Sam asked, frowning in concern.

"Nothing," Dean replied, waving a hand. Not the one he'd just mutilated. He didn't want Sam to find out about this, either. "You go ahead and put all of that stuff up. I'll go - I'll go out and get some of those other bags in."

He could feel Sam's hazel stare boring into his back as he climbed up to the door, like a pair of red-hot pokers, and knew that he was going to have to face more questions later. Which would be fine, he could handle that. He'd just deflect them and say that everything was fine until Sam let it drop. He'd forget about it eventually.

Yeah. Because that'd always worked before.

It wasn't real. Dean just kept repeating that to himself as he gathered as many plastic bags as he could carry up off the back seat of the Impala, not even glancing at their heavy contents. It _couldn't_ be real. He wasn't some kind of freak - he'd never been sexually attracted to Sam. Jeez, he was his little brother. The least-sexy person in the entire world.

Right?

Right.

Satisfied and secure (for the moment, at least), Dean carried the bags inside, where he spent the next forty-five minutes helping Sam put everything away and artfully dodging his not-so-subtle attempts to figure out what was bothering him. In fact, he made it almost all the way through cooking and eating dinner without letting anything slip, which had to be a new personal best for him when Sam was in interrogator mode.

"Did you find a case?" Sam asked, reaching for his beer. His second of the evening; Dean was on his fourth. "A really bad one? Is that what's gotten under your skin?"

"No," Dean said, clearing his throat. "I didn't even look for any cases today."

"Well, that's what you were _supposed_ to be doing," Sam replied, an edge of disappointment surfacing in his voice.

"Really?" That was news to Dean.

Sam sighed through his nose and shook his head, evidently deciding to just let it go. "So, if it doesn't have anything to do with a case, then what's gotten into you?"

"Nothing's bothering me," Dean immediately responded, putting a forkful of carbonara in his mouth. Tonight's dinner had been a compromise: it wasn't the burgers that Dean usually made, but it was also loaded with cheese and bacon.

Sam didn't say anything for a second, just pushed his own empty plate aside and folded his hands on the table. He fixed Dean with a look that, despite his thirty-plus years of experience with dealing with the uncanny power of Sam's various expressions, made him uncomfortable.

"D'you _really_ think that I'm gonna buy that?" he demanded. "It hasn't been working for the past two hours - why the hell would it start now? I know you, Dean, and I can tell that there's something seriously wrong."

Dean fidgeted in his seat, swallowing a mouthful of pasta that, all of a sudden, might as well have been clay. He realized now that he never should have counted on Sam dropping the whole thing if he denied it enough. That might have worked in the past, when respect and a mutual discomfort when it came to talking about their feelings had made Sam shut up after three or four attempts, but there'd been too many destructive secrets between them since then. Sam knew better than to let it drop now - he'd drive Dean crazy with pushing to avoid the risk of both of them getting burned later.

Which meant he really only had one option.

"Cas said something to me today," Dean began carefully, reaching for his own beer. He was going to have to be at least buzzed to get through this.

"What was it?" Sam asked, shaking his head. Something seemed to occur to him. "Did he finally figure out that he's not actually dealing with selkies?"

"Well, actually, I told him about that," Dean admitted.

"I thought we said we weren't gonna do that!" Sam exclaimed.

"Yeah, well, people were dying, Sam." Dean grabbed his beer again, draining it this time. "And it was pretty obvious that he wasn't ever gonna get it on his own."

There was silence between them for almost exactly five seconds. Then Sam cleared his throat and asked, "So what'd he say?"

"He told me who my soulmate was," Dean replied, already craving another beer. He'd be up half the night getting rid of all of it, but at this point, he didn't give a damn.

Sam ducked his chin a little and raised both eyebrows in his all-but-patented "Seriously?" look. "Well...did you _ask_ him about it?"

"Yeah," Dean admitted after a short pause. "And he said he'd read the name on my heart back when he put all that crap on my ribs. 'Cause, you know, that's how you tell who your soulmate is?"

Sam considered, then nodded, evidently remembering what they'd learned while working that case almost five years ago.

"So was it Crowley or something?" he asked, shaking his head.

 _"No,"_ Dean snapped, offended. Crowley? Jesus. "What the hell makes you think it'd be a _dude,_ anyway?"

Sam didn't say anything. Just raised his eyebrows again. Dean was getting uncomfortable for the second time that night, so he cleared his throat and continued.

"He didn't even tell me what it was," he said. "He just made a stupid joke. In really bad taste. And I guess that's what's been eating at me." He got up to get another beer, effortlessly lobbing his empty bottle into the garbage can on the way. His knife-throwing skills, he'd learned when he was about twelve, carried over really well into other, less dangerous aspects of his life.

"So what was this joke?" Sam asked as Dean returned to the table, prying the cap off of a fresh beer. "It must've been pretty bad, to have you wound up so tightly."

"He told me," Dean said, sitting down with a sigh, "that it was _your_ name that's written on my heart." He elaborated. "That you're my soulmate."

He'd expected Sam to burst out laughing, or to make a sound of shock and disgust. Or to look away, embarrassed and grossed out, and quickly change the subject. But, instead of doing any of those things, he stared at Dean as his jaw worked a little. He was probably chewing on the inside of his lower lip. Then, very tentatively, he asked, "Are you... _sure_ that it was a joke?"

Dean nearly choked on his beer.

"Excuse me?" he demanded, coughing. "Yes, I'm _sure_." He mimicked Sam's inflection. "Last time I checked, we - " He gestured back and forth between the two of them. " - weren't chomping at the bit to bone each other. Unless there's something you wanna tell me?" Now it was his turn to raise his eyebrows. He felt a little smug about that.

Sam immediately shook his head, prompting a wave of relief in Dean, who didn't really understand it. It wasn't like he'd actually been afraid that Sam would say he had the hots for him.

"No," Sam said. "Of course not." He made a face - finally. "But I'm not sure that two people have to be sexually attracted to each other to be soulmates."

"What the hell are you talking about? Of course they do," Dean said, shaking his head and then taking a deep pull from his beer. He smacked his lips when he was finished, earning a (probably unconscious) facial tic from Sam. "Your soulmate is - is the person that you fall in love with and then marry or whatever. If Famine doesn't roll into town and make you eat each other first."

"Well, maybe that's the case, like, ninety percent of the time, but I think there can be exceptions," Sam replied, spreading his huge, callused hands. "Your best friend can be your soulmate, for example. You might not want to sleep with them, but you still wanna spend the rest of your lives together."

"Maybe you've got a point," Dean admitted. "But I really doubt that we're one of these 'exceptions.'" He threw air quotes around the word with one hand and used the other to lift his beer to his mouth again.

"Why?"

"'Cause we're _brothers_ ," Dean replied. "I don't _want_ to spend the rest of my life with you - we're stuck together. Don't you think I'd ditch your Sasquatch ass if I could?"

He knew he'd screwed up the second that unmistakable hurt flickered across Sam's face, and leaned forward to try and fix it. "I didn't mean that."

"No, I know you didn't," Sam replied. "I doubt you'd've shoehorned an angelic felon into me to save my life if you actually wanted me gone."

Dean chuckled humorlessly, and finished his beer.

"Fine," he said. "I get twitchy if I don't touch base with you at least every few hours, but I don't think that's 'cause we're soulmates."

"We share a Heaven," Sam said bluntly.

"Oh, no, we don't." Dean snorted, shaking his head. "You've got Thanksgiving dinner with that girl, and I've got..." He trailed off.

"Fireworks with me," Sam finished for him. "Maybe we've got our own little corners, but it's all part of the same space, and there're more than a few seconds that overlap. We share a Heaven."

"We're not soulmates," Dean repeated, stubbornly. Sam was very nearly his whole word. He was man enough to admit that to himself. But he was _not_ bound to him body and soul, by the decree of God, for all eternity.

Sam just raised his eyebrows again. Dean broke after about thirty seconds.

"Goddammit!" He turned and threw his empty bottle at the trash can. Just like he had with the previous one. This time, though, he missed. It hit the wall, exploding into about a million amber shards that rained, _tink_ ing, down to cover the floor. He felt more than saw Sam wince.

"Dean, stop it," he commanded firmly. Dean faced him, but couldn't make eye contact.

"Stop what?" he demanded. "Why the hell shouldn't I freak out? This is them screwing us over - _again_. This isn't right, this isn't - normal - "

"Since when has any part of our lives been normal?" Sam took Dean running out of words, apparently, as an opportunity to jump calmly in. Dean covered his face with his hands and rubbed, his ring catching on his five o'clock shadow. "This isn't a bad thing.

"Sure it isn't," Dean muttered.

"You need to try and calm down," Sam advised.

"Yeah, fine. Good idea. I'll go calm down." Dean got to his feet and made to leave the kitchen, but Sam grabbed his wrist before he could. He glanced down at that warm paw, holding him firmly, then up at Sam's open, earnest face.

"Don't go get drunk," he told him, shaking his head.

Dean hesitated, then sighed heavily, flopping back down into his chair. He eyed Sam, then commented, "You're just on a cockblocking roll today. Won't let me have a, I don't know, Brazilian supermodel as my soulmate, won't let me get plastered..."

Sam barely smirked, then let go of Dean's hand. He cleared his throat and suggested, "We should try to relax. Take our minds off of this." He pushed himself to his feet. "Wanna go watch TV?"

"Can't," Dean replied. "Mine's busted."

"Mine's not. Let's go."

* * *

It'd been awhile since Dean had been in Sam's room. While he was there, at least; he'd snuck in last Friday to steal batteries and deodorant while he was off doing something in the library. Dean glanced around as he set a metal bowl, holding the contents of two bags of microwave popcorn, down on the nightstand, then flopped onto the bed once he was satisfied that nothing had changed. His weight sent a puff of air up from the bedding that smelled like Sam, sandalwood and soap and old, leather-bound books. He decided to pretend he hadn't noticed all those different scents.

Speaking of Sam, he stepped into the room right then, breaking Dean out of his thoughts. He raised a six-pack of brown bottles by the cardboard handle, and half-smiled when Dean nodded his approval.

"Find anything good?" he asked, setting the beer down next to the popcorn and walking around to the other side of the bed. Dean shook his head.

"Nah," he said, picking up the remote and glancing at Sam as he sat down. "Not yet. Just barely turned it on."

He scooted up, leaning back against the pillows and raising the remote in order to flip through the channels. He stopped on what looked like a black-and-white monster movie from the forties or fifties, figuring that it was as good as anything else. He just wanted something mindless. Something he could zone out to. After the kind of day that he'd had, he felt like he deserved it.

Sam cleared his throat when Dean dropped the remote, and asked, "Hand me a beer."

"Oh, yeah. Sure." Dean plucked one out of the cardboard holder - cold, he noted approvingly - with the tips of his fingers and passed it to Sam, then grabbed another one for himself. Sam glanced at him as he popped it open and snorted, shaking his head.

"I should've just brought soda for you," he said. "What'd I tell you about getting drunk?"

"Oh, c'mon," Dean complained. "It's beer. I'm not even tipsy yet - I could stand to drink another bottle or two, and you know it."

Sam just shook his head again, raising the mouth of his own bottle to his lips. When he brought it back down, Dean held out his, waggling it to catch Sam's attention. His eyebrows lifted when he saw it.

"Seriously?" he asked, sounding skeptical.

"To us," Dean said, grinning. "And to a relationship that is about ten times weirder now than it was when we got up this morning."

Sam cracked one of those small, soft smiles of his, and tapped his bottle against Dean's with a ringing of glass, being a good sport. Dean lifted his drink up and took a few deep gulps, turning his attention back to the movie as soon as he wasn't thirsty anymore.

He probably could have predicted it if he'd been paying attention, given the way that things were going today, but when Sam cleared his throat again aout five minutes later, it caught him completely by surprise. He glanced over at him and arched an eyebrow. "What?"

"Is this...really going to change our relationship?" Sam asked quietly. Dean reached for the remote and dropped the volume on the TV so that he'd be able to hear him. "Now that we know for sure, I mean."

"Know what? That we're soulmates?" Dean sighed, lifting his beer to take another drink of it. "I don't know, Sam." He lowered the bottle again, resting it in its customary place on his jean-clad thigh. "It might change things between us. It might not. I mean, most days, I barely know if I'm gonna be able to get up the next morning, much less how I'm gonna act. Even around you." He decided not to mention that he was a little drunk right now, too, and that was probably contributing to his uncertainty. He could feel the beer going golden in his veins. And his bladder. He'd have to get up soon.

"Well." Dean, eyes still on the TV, heard Sam lick his lips. "Maybe a _few_ things could change between us because of this." A pause. "Just a few."

This time, Dean actually turned off the TV instead of just making it quieter. He gave Sam his undivided attention, feeling like he really wasn't going to like whatever it was that he had in mind. "Like what?"

"I just feel like there are a few things we can do, now that we know, that won't be awkward or feel weird - " Sam began, shrugging.

"Oh my _god_ ," Dean interrupted loudly. Sam glared at him.

"I just want you to touch - " he tried again.

"Oh, my _god._ "

"Shut up," Sam snapped, angry. "I want you to hold me, Dean. Like you did when we were little, all the time. You don't _touch_ me enough anymore, and you're the only human contact I get. But is that too much to ask? For you to put an arm around me a little more often than you do now?"

Dean considered. That wasn't anywhere near as bad as what he'd expected him to say - what he'd kept cutting him off to avoid hearing.

"No," he admitted after about ten seconds. "I can do that. But _not_ out in public, and not, like, every time we sit down together."

Sam shrugged and nodded, like he could live with that, then started to scoot over. He stopped after about an inch, though, hesitating. Dean sighed exasperatedly.

"C'mere," he commanded, holding out an arm that Sam, with a smile of relief, gladly slid under. Dean turned the TV back on as soon as he was situated.

It'd definitely been a long time. He didn't have any memory of holding Sam like this past when he'd been in sixth grade, and he definitely didn't remember how freaking _warm_ he was. He felt like a space heater, pressed up against him, and as Dean nursed his beer, he reflected that it was a good thing they weren't drinking something hot. He didn't want to wind up sweating all over Sam's bed. Not to mention Sam himself.

Sam shifted, got a little closer as an actress with a heavily-powdered face screamed onscreen (just a coincidence - for some reason, Dean really doubted that he was actually scared). The new position meant that Dean could feel his heartbeat against his palm, even and strong and a million times more relaxing for him to listen to than any music he could dial up on his iPod. It meant he was healthy. That he had years, decades, probably more than half a century, with his habits, left to live. Dean could still recall how his pulse had felt as he'd half-carried him out of that abandoned church after talking him down from completing the Trials, the memory painfully sharp - probably because it was a bad one. The nurses at the hospital that he'd rushed him to had called it "thready." To Dean, it had been weak and erratic enough to make him feel like he was going to throw up, sick with the knowledge that it could stop any minute. So, yeah, this was reassuring.

Sam leaned back and scooted down, resting comfortably up against Dean's chest. His hair brushed against the underside of his stubbled chin. It smelled sweet and clean, and Dean took another drink of his beer. He didn't care how Sam's hair smelled, and he really shouldn't even be noticing it.

"Cheesy as hell," Sam muttered as the monster finally showed up onscreen. Dean focused on the movie, observing that the "monster" was just a guy in a rubber costume. Not a particularly well-made one, either. He chuckled.

"Yeah, they don't make 'em like they used to, do they?" he asked cheerfully, then shifted a little. He was getting uncomfortable, his bladder so full that his jeans were tight. He needed to get up and...

The thought trailed off as a sudden realization burst into Dean's mind, and he felt his eyes widen with the horror of it. His pants weren't tight just because he had to go drain the dragon.

He had to get out of here before Sam noticed. He let go of him and swung his legs off the side of the bed, changing his position pretty drastically with no warning. His younger brother must have been leaning really heavily against him, because he almost fell over before catching himself with a hand on the mattress.

"What's wrong?" he asked AS Dean stood up. He wasn't looking at his face, but his voice sounded anxious. He probably thought he'd screwed up somehow and scared Dean off, which was kind of sad considering how bright and hopeful he'd been about the whole "soulmates" thing, but Dean didn't have time to reassure him.

"Gotta take a leak," he responded, already more than halfway to the door.

"Well, you can go right - " Sam began, probably pointing to the tiny bathroom that was right off his bedroom. Dean cut him off.

"That's okay." And he was out of the room. He wasted almost five minutes walking to a bathroom that he felt was a decent distance away - one that'd been public back in the glory days of the Men of Letters, with multiple stalls and sinks. Standing in front of a dusty urinal, Dean unzipped his jeans, tugged his boxers down, and confirmed what he'd felt back in Sam's bedroom: he was sporting a semi.

He groaned to himself, taking it in one hand and awkwardly leaning forward so that he could hit his target. It was probably, he realized, because he had to go so bad, and it'd probably go away once he was finished. After all, any time that he woke up with morning wood anymore, it was because he needed to make an immediate pit stop. Satisfied with that explanation, he finished up. He could get back to Sam now. Drop onto the bed, pull him close again, feel his warmth and his heartbeat...

Dena's cock twitched in his hand.

He instantly looked down at himself in pure horror, feeling more blood start to sluggishly fill him out as he thought about...as he thought about _Sam_. His stomach lurched, and for a second, he honestly thought that he was going to lose his beer and carbonara right into the urinal. This was impossible. He would never be so starved for sex that he found Sam appealing - except for right now, apparently. But he'd never once wanted to have sex with him. For fuck's sake, he was his _brother_. These urges couldn't possibly be his.

Which mean that there was really only one other explanation.

Dean shoved himself back into his pants as he thought unwillingly about the downy hair between Sam's pectorals, zipped up, and went to find Castiel.

He passed Sam's room on the way to the library but, thankfully, he was too busy rummaging through one of the drawers in his nightstand to notice him. Dean was grateful, not wanting to have to explain to him what was going on. He was still trying to put the curve of his denim-covered ass, though, out of his head when he arrived at the library and saw a crisp white button down flitting through the stacks. He tracked it with a ruthlessness he usually only reserved for vampires on a killing spree. As soon as he had a clear line of sight to Castiel, face lined with concentration (Sam, hair messy, frowning as he bent over a book) and arms full of books, he charged.

"You heavenly son of a bitch," he growled out as he quickly ate up the distance between them. "What the hell'd you do to me?"

Castiel turned to look at him, a look of annoyance flitting across his face, but it quickly changed to one of concern when he saw the expression Dean was wearing - which, he was sure, was nothing short of murderous.

"Dean," he said. He set his books down on the seat of the nearest chair. "What's wrong?"

"I'll _tell_ you what's wrong." Reaching Castiel, Dean took two handfuls of his shirt and pushed him up against the bookcase that he was standing in front of, struggling not to fantasize about doing this to Sam. Castiel didn't resist, but he did grunt as the air was forced out of his vessel's lungs, and the inside of Dean's right forearm burned for the first time in weeks. "You told me not to bother you unless it was an emergency. Well, this is definitely an emergency, in my book."

Castiel looked down at Dean's hands, then back up at his face, making eye contact. "Let me go, and tell me what's going on."

"Oh, right, let you go." Dean laughed, humorlessly. His groin throbbed in his jeans. Sam sleeping on the other side of the motel room, Sam fresh out of the shower and wearing nothing but a towel, loose around his hips. Whatever had been done to him, it'd opened the damn floodgates. "After you _did_ something like this to me?"

"I don't understand," Castiel told him, shaking his head. Dean pushed his knuckles into the flesh of his chest.

"What was it?" he demanded, not believing that Castiel wasn't behind this for so much as a second. "Did you call a cupid down? Or is it something you did yourself?"

"Do you really think I'm on good enough terms with Heaven right now to be ordering around cherubim?" Castiel asked him dryly. "And, again: what's going on, Dean?"

"Like you don't know." Sam's hands on his bare skin, feeling for fractures.

"I don't," Castiel said, very deliberately.

"Are you seriously going to make me say it?" Dean asked, disbelieving. Sam before he performed his usual every-other-day shave. "It had to've been you. _You_ told me Sam was my soulmate - and this sure as hell didn't come from _me."_

Castiel frowned. And then understanding dawned on his face, and he glanced downwards. At Dean's bulging crotch. "You're aroused."

"No shit," Dean snapped. He could feel it pounding to images of Sam, shirtless.

"By your brother," Castiel stated.

 _"Yes,"_ Dean growled, the fabric of Castiel's shirt growing damp with sweat as he tightened his grip.

"Well." Castiel fidgeted slightly under Dean's fists, but he couldn't figure out how to stop him from doing it. "That's...rather predictable." Dean ground his teeth so hard they ached, and he was sure Castiel could hear it. "But I had nothing to do with it."

"Nothing to do with it, my ass." Dean's heart felt like a freight train thundering through his chest. Sending blood pumping down to what Sam had so adorably referred to, once, as his "downstairs brain." "D'you really expect me to believe that? _Really_? I am _not_ naturally attracted to Sam."

He realized his voice had risen sharply, and cleared his throat self-consciously. He hoped he hadn't been loud enough for Sam to hear him. He wanted this to stay between Castiel and himself.

"Are you sure?" Castiel asked him, and Dean was so angry that he shook him a little.

"I think I know who gets my engine going, _Cas_ ," Dean growled. "And it's definitely not my little brother."

"Have you considered that you might have been repressing these feelings for years?" Castiel asked him. He was way too calm; it was driving Dean nuts. "Say, since...early puberty. Or perhaps even sooner. Now that you know you were always intended for your brother, and visa-versa..." His forehead furrowed slightly as he mangled the phrase. "Your subconscious mind thinks it's all right to feel this way. So all of your emotions and physical urges towards your brother have been released."

"Bullshit," Dean said angrily. He noticed that, for some reason, his hands were shaking.

"I swear to you on my grace," Castiel began. "My _real_ grace...that I had nothing to do with this. If someone is manipulating you, it isn't me."

Dean stared hard at him, swallowing. Castiel wasn't human. He'd seen for himself that he had a hard time lying, exaggerating, just generally being untruthful. So he really doubted that he'd swear on something as important to him as his grace if he actually was messing with him.

But the alternative was too terrible, too shameful and twisted and _awful_ to even consider. So he didn't let Castiel go. The angel sighed.

"Dean, what reason would I have for influencing your feelings - if that was even something I could do?" he asked him, shaking his head. "You and Sam are my friends. I'd even go so far as to call you my family; you've certainly treated me better than my real family ever has. But it really doesn't make a whole lot of difference to me if you two mate or not."

"We're not," Dean asserted stubbornly.

"All right," Castiel replied, tone perfectly agreeable. "As I said before, I don't really care. Just so long as denying your urges doesn't interfere with your hunting ability." He glanced over Dean's shoulder. Probably towards the books that he'd dropped onto the chair when he saw Dean coming for him. "Which reminds me..."

"Maybe it's the Mark," Dean said, completely ignoring Castiel's attempt to hint to him that he wanted to get back to work. "I mean, when it had me..." When it had forced him to repay it for bringing him back to life by turning his eyes black every time it got hungry. "All I wanted to do was drink, kill, and screw."

"Maybe," Castiel agreed in a tone that made it clear he really didn't think so. "Speaking of the Mark, though." He glanced down at it, raising one eyebrow slightly. "I think that part of what you're feeling right now is because of it. Remember that it feeds on and multiplies your negative emotions."

Before Dean could snap out a smartass reply to that - because he didn't need the Mark to be pissed over developing incestuous feelings for Sam - a huge hand settled firmly onto his shoulder, and the one person he didn't want anywhere near him right now quietly said, "I think I'm with Cas on this one, Dean. You need to calm down."

Dean stiffened (pun fully intended, since having Sam so close, _touching_ him, sent what felt like another gallon of blood rocketing down to his groin). He swallowed hard, staring at Castiel but not really seeing him, just so he wouldn't have to look at Sam. Voice low, he managed, "What're you doing out here, Sam?"

"Well, first of all, you were taking way too long to piss, even with all the beer you drank tonight," Sam replied dryly. "So I figured I'd better go look for you, just in case you'd passed out or something." He paused. "Then I heard yelling."

Dean winced. Sam huffed out something that might have been a laugh.

"Yeah, you're not too quiet when you're freaked out." He gave his shoulder a little squeeze. Dean's breath caught in his throat. "C'mon. Let go of Cas, and we'll head back to my room. We need to talk."

 _We need to talk._ Those were the words that Dean had been dreading. He didn't want to talk about this - he could almost perfectly imagine the look in Sam's eyes, disgust and horror and probably even pity, and he just knew he wouldn't be able to handle it. He needed a drink, something much stronger than beer. He wanted to forget all about this. Maybe these feelings would go away if he got drunk enough. It had never worked before, with grief or guilt or fear or pain, but he still felt like it was worth a shot here.

But Sam's hand was still on his shoulder. So he let go of Castiel, and the angel walked past the two of them to retrieve his books. And then he had to turn around and face Sam.

Sam's eyes were calm and mild, his expression neutral. Carefully controlled, Dean thought. He didn't want him to see how he was actually feeling. That was a good idea, considering the situation, so he did his best to mimic him. But, of course, there was no way he could hide the bulge in his jeans without being obvious.

"I really don't wanna talk about this," Dean said abruptly. He thought that it'd be best to get it out there as soon as possible. Maybe a miracle would happen and Sam would let him go.

"Why am I not surprised?" Sam asked. Dean though he saw a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "I know discussing your feelings with me isn't your favorite thing. It's not mine, either." Dean found that hard to believe. "But this is something we just really can't avoid."

Dean blew out a deep breath. "Yeah, I knew you'd say that." He pushed past Sam. Sort of. He was careful not to actually touch him. "Well, come on. Let's go back to your room so I can tell you everything and we can never look at each other ever again."

"I don't think that's gonna happen," Sam said, following him. Dean heard a soft swish of long hair, like he was shaking his head.

"I do." He swallowed again, not looking back. "You haven't heard what I've had to say."

"Well, actually..." Sam began. His heavy footsteps sped up, and then he was walking right next to Dean. Awesome. "I kind of did."

Dean stopped, glancing at him, and Sam glanced back. At least he had the decency to look a little sheepish. Dean cleared his throat, doing his best to keep his cool.

"So how much'd you hear?" he asked, assuming that Sam had caught the tail end of his argument with Castiel.

"Enough," Sam admitted. Bitch that he was, he hadn't stopped walking when Dean did, which meant that Dean had no choice but to hurry to catch up to him. It felt like someone was stabbing sewing needles in a row up and down his spine. Demonic acupuncture.

"So?" he asked through a dry mouth.

" _So_ , we need to talk," Sam replied. They reached his room and stopped, facing each other. Dean kept plenty of distance between them.

"In there?" Dean asked, eyes flicking towards the doorway to Sam's room. The door was closed. "Really?" He folded his arms across his chest. "Are you sure you want me in a bedroom with you?"

Sam blew out a breath, shaking his head and looking away. When he made eye contact with Dean again, he looked exasperated. "I'm not worried about you raping me, if that's what's got you acting so weird."

"Well, then I'd assume that you at least wouldn't wanna think about what I, for some reason, wanna do to you," Dean snapped. Sam probably _should_ be worried about him forcing him into something he didn't want. With the Mark and all.

"I don't know, not really," Sam said, shrugging. "It just doesn't bother me all that much. Can we go talk now?"

Dean squinted, sure he'd heard wrong. "What?"'

"It doesn't bother me," Sam repeated, turning and walking into his room. After a few seconds of hesitation, Dean sucked it up and followed him.

"Why the hell not?" he demanded. Sam moved over to stand by the TV, which had been turned off. The beer and popcorn was still sitting on the nightstand, along with an unmarked white bottle that Dean was sure hadn't been there before. Probably lotion or something. Some girly scent meant to relieve stress.

"I don't know, it just doesn't." Sam shrugged again. "Now, please, I want to - "

"We _are_ talking, right now," Dean interrupted, frustrated and feeling like there was something here that Sam was being less than truthful about. "This - " He gestured back and forth between them with one hand. " - is us talking. And I want a clear answer about why the idea of the two of us bumping our uglies doesn't gross you out."

Sam closed his eyes, reaching up to rub at his face and taking in a deep breath through his nose. He let it out, dropped his hands, and opened his eyes, studying Dean. And then Dean found out just how fast Sam was, despite his size. Sam was by the TV. Dean was standing in the doorway. That was a distance of a good eight or nine feet, but Sam crossed it while Dean was blinking. He only knew he'd moved because his hands suddenly dropped onto his hips and his mouth...well, his mouth, open and wet and hot, crushed itself against Dean's. It was so close to what he'd been aching to do that the thought of pushing Sam away didn't even cross his mind. He moved with him, opened his own mouth, tasted beer and salt and butter on Sam's tongue. They were breathing each other's air. His head was full of the scent of him.

Dean was kissing his brother. Or, well, he guessed his brother was kissing _him_ , technically speaking. The rational part of him, the part that'd been shaped by society and culture and basic human instinct, gagged and recoiled. The rest of him was pretty okay with it. Just so long as no one (namely Castiel) saw them.

Sam drew back after awhile. From the way his chest was heaving with heavy pants, it was probably so he could get some air. Dean, sucking wind and trembling just enough that he could feel it, was in the same boat, so he didn't mind. He tried to think of something to say, something profound or at least witty, but he wasn't all that eloquent even when his brain hadn't been temporarily shorted out by copious amounts of Sam-liva. So all he could manage was a husky, "Oh."

Sam was still close to him. So close that Dean could feel his hardon nudging against his own, so close that he could whisper in his ear. Which was what he was doing now, his breath so hot and moist that Dean's eyes fluttered closed and a moan rose in his throat.

"Remember how I told you now that we know we're soulmates, a few things between us can change?" he breathed. "We can do things without worrying about them?"

"Yeah," Dean said. He swallowed. "You wanted me to hold you."

"Well." A delicious shudder rolled through Dean as Sam slipped his thumbs under the hem of his shirt and lightly touched bare flesh. "Now...I want you to make love to me."

Dean grabbed his wrists, squeezing. He wasn't sure if he wanted to pull his hands away or push them more firmly against himself.

"This a spur of the moment thing?" he asked. Sam shook his head.

"I thought...I wanted..." he began, clumsily. He didn't seem quite as confident anymore. Dean wasn't really surprised to find out that Sam's seductive side only came out for a few minutes at a time. "When you first told me, it popped into my head, but I didn't...I wasn't even sure where to begin with it. Until I heard you. So...kinda, I guess."

"Well, we're gonna need - " Dean began. Sam cut him off, gesturing to the plain bottle that Dean had seen on the nightstand.

"I've got everything we need," he said, half of his mouth quirking up in a slight smile.

"Condoms?" Dean asked. Lube was clearly taken care of.

"Not unless you need one, for some reason." Sam's hands were still on his hips. He was smiling at him, sliding them slowly under his shirt and up his sides. Dean couldn't think of anything else to ask. He was fixated on his lips. He wanted to feel them again.

"We're gonna regret this in the morning," he mumbled.

"We can talk through all this then," Sam replied, leaning in a little so that their noses were nearly touching. Apparently, he wasn't interested in talking anymore. "Feel guilty. Yell at each other. But right now, I don't think either of us can wait much longer to rip into each other."

"You thought right," Dean said, then crushed their mouths together. He put one hand on the back of Sam's head to pull him closer and wrapped his other arm around him, binding them together. He forced him backwards with his own body, walking them in what he really hoped was the direction of the bed, and was relieved when Sam hit something and then let go of him to fall back onto it.

Eyes open now (they'd been closed during the kiss), Dean climbed onto the mattress as Sam situated himself, lying down in the middle and spreading out. He started working at the button of his jeans as Dean, impatient, all but attacked the ones on his shirt. He struggled to resist the urge to just rip the flannel open. He threw it off the bed when he'd finally gotten it off, then started pulling up Sam's T-shirt while he wriggled out of his jeans. Dean felt like there was an unspoken agreement between the two of them that they needed to get all of their clothes off before they got started. He wanted as much skin-on-skin contact as he could possibly get, and he guessed that Sam felt the same.

Dean didn't even get a chance to appreciate the Michelangelo-statue perfection of Sam's body once he was fully naked, because he immediately went for his clothes, pushing him up straight so it'd be easier for him. T-shirt, jeans. Boxers. It didn't take as long for them to undress Dean as it had Sam; he wasn't wearing as many layers. As soon as he'd kicked his boxers off of his ankles, he practically dove at Sam, who welcomed him with another molten kiss. The cool air was a relief against his swollen cock, which had been fully, painfully erect since he'd first started thinking about Sam in the bathroom, but it didn't last long. He was rutting against Sam's hot, sweat-damp flesh within seconds, building a rhythm with him that gave both of them the maximum possible friction.

It was probably around half an hour before Dean ever even got inside Sam, which would shock him to his core when he thought back over it later. They spent most of those thirty minutes just exploring, running their hands and mouths and eyes over each other's bodies. Muscles, scars, moles, freckles. Dean had thought that he knew Sam pretty well, seeing how he saw him at least half-naked a couple times a week and stitched him up every time he didn't do so hot during a hunt, but this proved him wrong. There were things he'd never seen before - and there were _definitely_ things he'd never felt or tasted. He couldn't believe the sense of freedom that came from being able to look at and touch any part of Sam that he wanted to, and vice-versa. They'd been given permission by God Himself.

Dean reached for the bottle of lube when, silently, they decided they were ready. He was rusty, since he hadn't gone this far with another man for a few years (another man that he'd prepped, at least; the Mark didn't differentiate as long as he was rough enough to satisfy it), but he remembered that he needed to warm the stuff up with his own body heat if he didn't want Sam to shoot halfway off the bed when he touched him. He squeezed, held the blob between his fingers until it stopped being so cold. The whole time, he had his face buried in Sam's neck, mouthing at his stubble. He could smell traces of aftershave. That moisturizing stuff that Sam had been having a love affair with since before Dean had picked him up from college.

A harsh sigh puffed out of Sam as Dean, finally feeling like the lube had warmed up enough, straightened up and pressed his slick fingers to his opening. His long, sinewy runner's legs wrapped fluidly around Dean's waist as he started to rub and push. Drawing him in, holding his position steady. The soft, dark hair on his thighs and calves tickled the pale skin on Dean's sides. He could feel the power there. Sam could probably break his ribs like this if he suddenly tightened his legs. For some reason, the thought sort of excited him.

"Put it in," Sam panted. He must be all but drowning in sex hormones, because his voice sounded like he'd been gargling with broken glass. Dean glanced down at him in surprise.

"Sure?" he asked skeptically. "I haven't even gotten a finger in you yet."

Sam lifted his head and glared at him. "I didn't hide a dildo from you for eight damn years so that you could spend ninety percent of our first time working me open. Put it in, Dean."

Dean felt precome well up on the tip of his cock as a bolt of arousal stabbed through him. That commanding tone was kinda hot. Not to mention the mental image of Sam conditioning himself with...one of those things for eight years. _Eight years_.

"Oh, jeez," Dean ground out. "For...?"

"Wasn't sure," Sam admitted, letting his head flop back against the pillow and closing his eyes. "You. Someone else. Lotta different people ran through my head." Dean felt a pang of jealousy. "Mostly you, though." He swallowed. Dean watched his Adam's apple bob. "Doesn't really matter now, though, does it?"

"Guess not." Dean pulled his fingers away, leaving behind a generous amount of lube, and wiped them clean on Sam's comforter. They'd probably have to wash his bedding when they were done, anyway. "I wanna see this dildo of yours one of these days, though."

Sam chuckled throatily as Dean lined himself up. "Fine with me."

Dean planted his hands firmly on Sam's shoulders, taking a second to squeeze and reassure both of them before he started. He let the wet head of his cock rest against Sam's hole, then decided to just take the plunge before he could overthink it and pushed in with a grunt. Sam hadn't been kidding about preparing himself for this. Dean was bigger than average (something he knew for sure, having secretly Googled the average a couple years back), and he still slid into Sam as easily as a knife being returned to its sheath.

He almost collapsed with the hot tightness of him, feeling his soft walls twitching and quivering around his length. Panting heavily, he stared down at Sam, who was staring right back at him with eyes that were wide open. He looked like he was having trouble catching his breath, the firm planes of muscle that made up his chest heaving up and down. He swallowed, lifting his hands to Dean's shoulders so they were holding onto each other. Dean could feel Sam's recently-clipped nails digging crescents into his bare skin.

"Go slow," Sam instructed, his tone halfway between commanding and pleading. "I want this to last."

Dean couldn't hold back a snort. He shifted his hips a little, and felt way too gratified when the movement got a startled little mewl out of Sam.

"Seriously?" Dean asked, skeptical. "Earlier, you didn't even want me to take the extra time to prep you right."

"That was different," Sam defended himself, coughing to clear his throat. "I distinctly remember telling you that I wanted you to make love to me. Not fuck me."

Ten years ago, Dean would have replied that there really wasn't that much difference between the two. He had a lot more experience now, though, both emotional and physical, and he thought he understood what Sam wanted. He huffed a sigh out through his nose, just a little one, and started rocking his hips in a smooth motion.

He didn't give in to the explosion of pleasure that the movement sparked in him. He forced himself to take it slow, just like Sam had asked him to. After a few seconds had passed and made him confident that he was in control, he closed his eyes, and let instinct guide him. He wasn't sure how much of it stemmed from the normal sexual urges of a guy whose door just happened to swing both ways and how much of it was something else. Something...deeper. Something, say, that had been written on his heart at birth.

He was meant to do this, Dean realized hazily as he found Sam's prostate, swollen and hot as a glowing ember with arousal, and rubbed the vein-ridged length of himself rhythmically over it. Few things had ever felt as _right_ to him as this did, a certainty that hammered itself home as a delicious, velvety moan rolled out of Sam. He'd been gearing up for this his entire life, and part of him had always known that, as he traded himself for Sam over and over and postured in front of people who wanted to sleep with him and made sure that, most of the time, they were never more than a few steps away from each other. He'd been protecting and claiming his soul mate, acting on angel-given instincts. Just like he was right now.

Dean bent down, changing his angle a little so that he could kiss Sam while he moved inside of him. Sam gave him a warm welcome, and Dean felt more precome seeping out of him and into Sam's channel as they mouthed at each other's lips and tongues. He took his right hand off of his shoulder and drew it slowly down over his fever-hot, hard body, until he reached a mat of wiry pubic hair, that'd obviously been trimmed and shaped, and pretty recently, too. He pulled back, opening his eyes and looking questioningly down at Sam. Sam nodded.

"Yeah," he whispered huskily. "That's fine."

Dean wrapped a hand around his cock. He hoped the heavy calluses on his palm wouldn't hurt him as he held him firmly and started to stroke in time with his gentle thrusts. He couldn't see it now, but he'd gotten a look at Sam's dick when he'd first undressed him. Thick, slightly curved, soft skin dusky from the blood under it. He felt up and down him, wanting to memorize (what felt like, at least) all seven or eight inches of it.

When Dean finally hit his orgasm, it wasn't what he'd expected, considering how hard he'd been - and for how long. It was slow, for one thing. Almost...soft. Definitely not the earth-shattering, come-spurting climax he'd been anticipating, and for a second, he was almost disappointed. But as he kept his motion in and out of Sam slow and steady, and his seed pumped languidly out of him, he got why this was special. It wasn't a firework; it was a lasting blaze. He could have sworn that familiar blissful feeling dragged on for minutes, and around the middle of it, Sam let out a huge breath of air that he must have been holding for awhile, and hot dribbles of come spilled over Dean's fingers. The sharp, recognizable scent of it filled the air, along with the smells of sweat and cologne and _Sam_ that had already been there.

Dean's thrusts slowed down even more as his orgasm tapered off, and they eventually stopped. His balls ached; he felt like he'd been milked dry, and he probably had. He couldn't ever remember coming for that long before. Sam seemed to be done, too. The flow had stopped, at least, and his eyes were closed. Dean let go of him and pulled out. White stickiness, just a little, dripped onto the comforter before the muscles that Sam had down there did what they were supposed to do and sealed him up. Dean watched. He knew that they really needed to go get cleaned up, but that could at least wait until they'd caught their breath. Dean might've taken it slow, but that didn't mean he wasn't exhausted.

He laid down next to Sam, not touching him, but still close enough to feel his warmth. For a few minutes, they just breathed. In sync, Dean noted with amusement. Then Sam opened his eyes and turned his head to look at him.

"That was really, _really_ good," he all but breathed out. Dean grinned.

"Glad to know Little Dean's still got it."

Just like he'd intended, Sam snorted softly and turned away. "No. It doesn't need a name." Another few seconds passed. "Should probably go get cleaned up."

"We can wait a little bit," Dean replied. "Just don't fall asleep with that stuff on you. And in you. It'll itch like hell in the morning."

"I don't think I wanna know how you learned that." Sam's hand found Dean's, who held it loosely. He could feel his pulse, rapid and strong, thudding in his palm.

Dimly, Dean started to realize just how _good_ he felt right now. Not just physically - though he definitely had to admit that it'd been way too long since he'd had sex that had even approached this quality. For years, something or other had always been eating away at his peace of mind, and it'd only gotten worse with the Mark. Like someone had pried his brain out of his skull without him noticing and dropped it in a fishbowl full of gore and nightmares. But right now, it was quiet inside his head. No emotional pain, no tamped-down terror, no bloody urges. For the first time in...jeez, decades, nothing was bothering him.

Well.

Except for one thing.

Dean cleared his throat to get Sam's attention, and once he'd looked over at him again, he spoke. "Sam." He swallowed. "What if Cas really _was_ messing with us?"

He watched Sam considering it, eyes flickering upwards. It didn't take long. He focused on him again after only a couple seconds, and gave his hand a squeeze.

"If he was," he said softly, "would you regret what we just did?"

Looking into Sam's eyes, a blurry hazel in the low light, and tasting him on his tongue, Dean really wasn't all that surprised to find that he wouldn't.


End file.
